


Layers of Artifice

by DictionaryWrites



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Assassination Attempt(s), Character Study, Complicated Relationships, M/M, Murder, Power Dynamics, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-17
Updated: 2019-01-17
Packaged: 2019-10-11 17:28:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17451257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: Written for this week's fandomweekly prompt of Devil's Advocate, with a bonus prompt ofway back when. Unfortunately, it's way too long to actually post on the comm.Rufus Drumknott is not, in every aspect, what he appears to be. Turbulent emotions somewhat play havoc with even the most carefully implemented of masks, however.





	Layers of Artifice

Vimes crosses his arms over his chest, and he looks directly at Drumknott, who is sitting on the other side of Captain Angua’s death. He has the general look about him, Vimes muses, of a doll or a marionette on a shelf: he holds his shoulders and his hands very neatly, very _primly_ , like a proper little clerk instead of the green grocer’s son they both know he is. Drumknott’s expression is quietly neutral behind his spectacles which, Vimes is fairly certain, he never wore before he began working for Lord Vetinari.

But then, he doesn’t believe Drumknott ever made himself seem quite so _small_ before he began working for Lord Vetinari, either – Drumknott is a clerk, and clerks never take up too much space, but the Drumknott that serves Lord Vetinari is seemingly _shyer_ , more reclusive, than the Drumknott Vetinari once interviewed after an unfortunate brawl in the UU Library.

 _That_ Rufus Drumknott, scarcely older than seventeen, his red cheeks even redder than usual, a bruise blooming on his jaw and blood neatly spattered over his thin knuckles but not on his shirt sleeves, hadn’t been shy at all. He’d been a cheeky little sod, that much is true, but he hadn’t been quite this _reserved_.

Vetinari wonders if Drumknott remembers – undoubtedly, he does.

“Have you ever killed a man, Mr Drumknott?”

“Before today?” he asks, with no small amount of attitude, and in her seat, he hears Angua exhale, hiding her mouth behind her hand. Vimes is standing at her shoulder, staring Drumknott down, and Drumknott glances down at his fingernails, which are clean and very well-manicured. “Why, _no_ , Commander. Why ever should you have a thought like that?”

“Mr Drumknott,” Captain Angua says, in a measured tone, “Mr…” She glances down at her notes, ostensibly to doublecheck the name. “Mr Frisson’s throat, according to Igor, was cut from the lower part of his jaw to his collar bone. Igor believes he was asphyxiated by his own blood before he had a chance to bleed to death.”

“Yes,” Drumknott agrees in a very mild tone, as one agreeing that the weather _has_ been rather awful recently, hasn’t it? “That sounds correct. I believe I bisected his Adam’s apple almost perfectly.”

“Quite perfectly,” Vimes allows. “According to Igor.”

“Oh,” Drumknott says, and although his mask does not alter, Vimes almost believes he can see the ghost of a smile in the minimal shift of Drumknott’s mouth.

“Does that bring you _pleasure_ , Mr Drumknott?”

“Commander Vimes, of course, I am not glad that this unfortunate man is dead,” Drumknott replies. “But I would be a liar to claim I was not one in favour of symmetry, where it might be found.”

( _“Have you ever been in a fight like this before, Mr Drumknott?” Vimes asks, arching an eyebrow at the rather petite little man before him, who nonetheless has the satisfied glow many young Ankh-Morporkian men have on their features in the aftermath of a fight. Whether the boy is accustomed to starting fights, and losing them, or whether he’s tasted a win like this before and relishes the repetition, that doesn’t much matter._

_“In a library, sir?” Drumknott asks, his tone deliberately insipid in the way only a clerk’s can be. “No, sir.”_

_“And what started the altercation?”_

_“I believe the gentleman, hoping it would upset the Librarian, was placing objects of ill-humour in amongst the bookshelves.”_

_“Stink bombs, Mr Drumknott.”_

_“Nasty things, sir. I should say the gentleman is lucky the hiding came from me and not the Librarian himself, sir.”_

_Quite without his permission, Vimes feels his eyebrows rise, but the young man seems entirely undeterred, safe in the knowledge that he is quite in the right. He glances from Vimes, looking to the Librarian, who is speaking with Corporal Nobbs, neither of them having much success in communicating with the other._

_“Moreover, sir,” Drumknott adds, somewhat superciliously, the green grocer’s son shining through the clerk’s demeanour, “that would have been vandalism, that would, sir. Getting all that stuff on the books. Disgusting.”_

_Were Drumknott any younger, in shooting a glare at his would-be assailant, still woozy and sitting on the floor beside the desk, he might’ve spat on the floor. As it stands, he just leans back on his heels, his hands clasped neatly in front of his belly, he says, “May I go, then, sir?”_

_“Yes, Drumknott, you can go._ )

“Mr Drumknott,” Captain Angua says quietly, in a tone that is soft and sympathetic – of course, she thinks Drumknott’s “I’m just a harmless little secretary” act is the real thing. It’s this _bravado_ that she thinks is the act, isn’t it? As if Drumknott wouldn’t see a body sprawled on the floor and do anything other than wrinkle his nose and step neatly over it. “It’s just important that we have all the correct facts for our report. Lord Vetinari is, after all, a trained assassin.”

“Lord Vetinari also knew how to sew, Captain: are you suggesting he darned my socks for me as well?” It comes out so coldly that Vimes feels Angua lean back in her chair, and he sees her mouth has fallen open in abject surprise as she _stares_ at the secretary, too shocked to be angry at him: his expression is entirely neutral, but there’s a hardness in his eyes Vimes hasn’t seen before. Past tense, Vimes notices. Past tense, already.

“Mr Drumknott,” Angua says, her tone harder, almost growling as she speaks. “To go back through your statement you entered the Oblong Office, Lord Vetinari was lying back in his chair, his head lolled to one side,” Drumknott flinches, but the blink of his eyes and the stiffening of his shoulders is so infinitesimal most people wouldn’t notice it, although Vimes expects she can _smell_ it as much as see it, “and Mr Frisson was advancing on him. You then took up the letter opener from the shelf, drew Mr Frisson’s attention, and cut his throat open.”

“Yes,” Drumknott says tightly.

“And why would you do it like that?”

“ _What_?”

“Why, Drumknott,” Angua says, “would you cut from lengthways instead of sideways, when what _you_ did was much harder? That’s the movement of somebody who wanted to make the man in question suffer, Mr Drumknott – seemingly, in my book, dependent on the training of the Assassins’ Guild.”

“To play devil’s advocate, Captain von Uberwald,” Drumknott says in a dread whisper, so cold Vimes expects it must have some of the corporals’ teeth chattering, “I am not of the opinion it is the privilege only of members of the Assassins’ Guild to wish to see people suffer.”

“And would you be acting in self-defence if your prerogative was making someone suffer?” Vimes asks, sharply, barking out the words. “Did you think Mr Frisson would hurt you, Drumknott? Or was this just an execution?”

Drumknott’s nostrils flare as he inhales.

“He’s alright, you know,” Vimes says mildly. Drumknott’s mask falters for a second, and his gaze flits to Vimes’ face, his lips twitching a little. Drumknott’s eyes are _shining_ behind those spectacles of his.

“Frisson said… And I saw him, the way that he—”

“He didn’t drink the poison, Drumknott,” Vimes says, ignoring the way Angua glances at him, because they weren’t going to _say_ so. Captain Angua had thought Drumknott was lying just to cover for Lord Vetinari, that he couldn’t possibly have killed the man, but Vimes can see that he did. Blood on his hands (but none on his shirt sleeves), and now all but trembling in his seat. There’s a lot of layers in Drumknott – artifice neatly on top of artifice, so that no one can crack him open and see what’s underneath. “He wouldn’t explain to the likes of _us_ , of course, but he was playing dead so that Frisson would come closer, and with his guard down.”

Drumknott stares at them, gaping like a fish, staring at them through the plain glass of his unnecessary glasses.

“Might I have my secretary back now?” says Lord Vetinari from the doorway of Angua’s office, and Drumknott heaves in a shuddering breath, relief showing on his face.

( _“Surprisingly noble, that stupid boy,” Vimes mutters to Nobbs. “He’ll be a great secretary, but he won’t last long.”_

_“What d’you mean?” Nobbs asks, furrowing his brow._

_“He’s the sort that’ll die in the line of duty, Nobbs – die, or kill. Desirable in a secretary, I’m sure, but if he ends up with the average lord or lady here in Ankh-Morpork, he’ll probably try taking on some well-meaning assassin, and get a grave plot for his troubles.”_

_“Oh,” Nobbs says, and then he shrugs his shoulders.)_

“We might still be charging him with murder!” Vimes says, more out of principal than out of general threat.

“ _Murder?”_ Vetinari repeats, rather dryly. “Oh, dear. When should I return to collect you, Drumknott?”

Drumknott presses his lips together, giving Vimes a glare, and he stands up from his seat, retrieving his jacket from the back of the chair and sliding it on.

“I don’t believe I told you that you could go, Mr Drumknott,” Captain Angua says.

Drumknott opens his mouth – Gods, the artifice is _really_ faltering today – but before he can, Vetinari says, “Are you charging him, Captain?”

“No, my lord,” Angua says dutifully, her lip twitching. “He’s all yours.”

Drumknott freezes, an expression of _affront_ passing over his features, but Vetinari merely arches an eyebrow and stares Angua down. Vimes has to prevent himself from smiling: Sybil is going to _love_ this, he’s sure.

“Is he _indeed_?” Vetinari asks, giving Drumknott a cursory glance, as if seeing him for the first time. Drumknott’s red cheeks are even redder than usual, and he looks so _small_ , for real, this time, genuinely. “Come, Drumknott. We have an appointment at the Post Office.”

Perhaps Vimes imagines it, but there’s something in Vetinari’s tone that is almost _gentle_ , and it seems to soothe Drumknott’s ruffled feathers somewhat as he draws himself up to his full height once more.

“Yes, my lord,” he says, and he follows after Lord Vetinari, out into the corridor.

“The bank chairman will corroborate his story,” Vimes predicts.

“Do you think he’s had training?” Angua asks, glancing up at Vimes and leaning back in her seat. There’s an expression of vague thought on her face, and she scratches her nose before she says, “I mean, do you think Lord Vetinari’s got him lessons, from an assassin, or from someone else?”

“Maybe,” Vimes murmurs. “That, or he’s just watched Lord Vetinari very closely himself. He’s a quick study, that Drumknott. Once he’s loyal to someone, he stays loyal; once he learns something, it stays learned.”

“He’s not as… _boring_ , as I thought,” Angua murmurs, her gaze lingering on the doorway.

“No,” Vimes agrees, stepping away. “You can’t trust anything in the palace to be what it says on the tin.”

 ---

Lord Vetinari gives him the day off, in the aftermath of Mr Frisson’s attempted assassination, and Drumknott lies on his side on the cot in his little quarters, his shoes neatly set on the shoerack beside the door. He’s still fully-dressed, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, the glasses Lord Vetinari gave him when he first started neatly set on the table beside him.

There is a knock, crisp and quiet, at the door: before he can sit up and move to let him in, the door opens, and Lord Vetinari steps into the room, the door clicking shut behind him. He looks down at Drumknott where he lies on the bed, and he steps very slowly forward, taking up the wooden chair at Drumknott’s writing desk and setting it beside the bed.

He sinks into the chair, crossing one of his legs over the other, his hands loosely settled on one of his thighs, his back ramrod straight.

“Have you ever killed a man, Drumknott?” Lord Vetinari asks.

“Before today, my lord?” Drumknott asks, all but mumbling the word into the pillow: he can still feel the indent of the silver letter opener in his hand, bruised into his palm from how hard he’d gripped it, and he barely thought about it, at the time, only wanted to make him _suffer_ … He’s seen Lord Vetinari kill people – he likes meeting assassins, and somewhat vicariously, before today, Drumknott has rather liked it too. It didn’t feel sufficient, today. Watching him choke to death on his own blood, watching his open throat twitch and his body shudder, it hadn’t felt like enough. “No, my lord.”

“Did you enjoy it?” Vetinari asks.

Drumknott risks a glance at his face, but Vetinari’s expression reveals nothing.

“Not especially, my lord,” Drumknott says. “I realized as I watched him die that I would rather have drawn it out for longer.” For a few moments, the silence lingers in the little room, and Drumknott stares into the space instead of at Vetinari himself.

“I wanted to extend my apologies to you, Drumknott,” Vetinari says quietly, and Drumknott presses his lips together, inhaling through his nose. “You had run down for help before I could call you back, and once the watch arrived… As they already brought you to the station before coming to investigate the crime scene, I did not know they would interrogate you by letting you believe I was actually dead.”

“You needn’t lie, my lord,” Drumknott says. “There were greater priorities at hand.”

“Have I ever lied to you, Drumknott?”

“I’m sure I wouldn’t know, my lord.”

Vetinari smiles at him. Drumknott isn’t sure how to respond, exactly, to an expression like that being levelled at him, particularly not one from Vetinari. After a long pause, and no small amount of hesitation, Drumknott smiles back.

“If you’re going to lie alone on your bed, staring at the walls,” Vetinari says, “I might as well confiscate your spontaneous day off from you. The Assassins’ Guild is expecting us.”

Drumknott peers at him for a moment, and then he says, after a moment’s thought, “My lord, I don’t believe they are.”

“No,” Vetinari agrees. “They aren’t.”

Drumknott feels a sense of warmth in his chest, and he leans up on the bed, sitting up, and he looks at his lordship very seriously, a sense of anticipation building under his skin. Going to the Assassins’ Guild, _directly_ after he has killed one of their younger guild member…

“I just need my shoes, my lord,” Drumknott says, and Vetinari stands neatly to his feet, drawing the chair back from the bed, and letting Drumknott grab for them from the rack.  “Won’t they be rather angry?”

“Yes, I expect so,” Vetinari says cheerfully. “Of course, so are _we_.”

We! So are  _we_ , he says!  _ **We!**_

Drumknott feels himself grin, and he draws his shoes onto his feet.

**Author's Note:**

> Hit me up [on Dreamwidth](https://dictionarywrites.dreamwidth.org/2287.html). Requests always open. I run a [Discworld Comm](https://onthedisc.dreamwidth.org/), and there's also [a Discord.](https://discord.gg/b8Z3ThH)


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